


Open Ears and Open Eyes

by 3valia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3valia/pseuds/3valia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A domestic & fluffy Sherlock fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Ears and Open Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fic, and my first attempt at writing in years. It was supposed to be a platonic John/Sherlock shower fic, but my mind tends to wander and it ended up as fluffy and domestic. Un-beta'd, so I'm sorry if I've made any mistakes. This also does not follow the timeline of the show at all.
> 
> I've decided to use writing as a 'therapy' since I've had more than a few things going on as of late. I really don't think that much of my writing (I do the lowest level of English in my classes, so don't be expecting too much because you'll be disappointed), but I'm hoping that putting it out there could help to improve my skills. So enjoy (or not, ha.) and if you have the time, please leave feedback, even if you think it's complete and utter crap :)
> 
> Title is from Bon Iver's 'Calgary'
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from BBC Sherlock, and I unfortunately do not make a profit from this.

It was almost impossible to imagine that only a year ago, John had been walking aimlessly through London when he was swept up into Sherlock's life. It felt like an entire lifetime, but Sherlock had a tendency to do that- fill their days with disorientation and excitement. So much so, that John could barely recall a time when he didn't wake up to long legs wrapped, unyielding, around his, and a warm hand splayed across his abdomen, or a time when he wasn't absolutely and helplessly in love with the tall, sharp-witted consulting detective.

Particularly when they were sitting in the comfortable silence of 221B. Sherlock was propped up on the sofa, John’s head resting against his lap. His nose nuzzled into the heat of Sherlock’s stomach, breathing in the woody smell of the fire that was blistering on the opposite side of the room. He could feel the deep rise and fall of his boyfriend’s chest, and the pressure of slim, pale fingers running through John’s hair was firm enough for him not to fall asleep, but gentle enough to make him nuzzle further into Sherlock’s stomach. There wasn’t a single noise except for the quiet tapping of Sherlock’s fingers on his phone, and the crackling of the fire that was slowly dying down into embers.

“Shower?” John asked, his voice slightly muffled by Sherlock’s shirt. He felt suddenly unclean, the faint smell of dried perspiration clinging to his clothing. Spending the early hours of the morning chasing criminals through the backstreets of London could do that to you. But if he was being honest with himself, despite the blood, sweat, and bruises, he wouldn’t trade it for the entire universe. Waiting for Sherlock’s answer, he began tracing the purple blotches on his arm, where they faded into an off-yellow. He didn’t even remember how he got them. He didn’t particularly care.  

“That would be lovely.”


End file.
